


Mama Foxter

by Sp00py



Series: A Study in Snuffering [7]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine, Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Blood, Dissociation, Drowning, Father Son Bonding, Gaslighting, Multiple snufkins, Mutilation, Other, Psychosis, Sleep Deprivation, Starvation, Torture, Waterboarding, mentions of torture, mouth horror, multiple joxters, nonsurvival fucking, suffocation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-24 07:52:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14950622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py
Summary: There are things you know, things you don’t know, and things you wish you never knew.





	1. Happy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Doceo_Percepto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Happy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14345316) by [Doceo_Percepto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto). 



> Idk when in _Happy_ this happens, but at some point, after days of torture by Bendy and the Joxter, Happy gets loose. Probably Bendy’s fault. And that’s all the background you need.

You finally misplace Snufkin. You’re a little surprised, yourself, when you go looking for him and find only old campsites. It makes you feel something other than tired. Proud? Worried. But mostly pleased. After years of care and concern, Snufkin has finally become wild like he is meant to be, wiser even than other Snufkins who don't know about Joxters, poor dears.  
  
The contentment settles low in your belly, and you finds a nice hollow stump to claim as your own. It’s hard to rest with a Snufkin, inquisitive and skittish as they are, but now you can.  
  
As your Snufkin does, you assume, his Snufkinish things out in the world, your nest grows slowly, from things stolen from Park Keepers or given by Mymbles and kind little Hemulens. It is full of insulating leaves, knitted goods, and preserved foods. You find, too, a Snufkin who enjoys being held, the rarest kind of all, and keep him for weeks, a soft green addition to your nest. You do things you would never do with your own Snufkin, then the Snufkin prepares to leave.  
  
"Do mind other Joxters," you advise as the Snufkin kneels next to you and strokes your head one final time. He likes the way your hair flips up into black tips like animal ears, and your warm, comfortable musk. He’s told you this several times over the days of fun. You knows you shouldn’t confuse Snufkins by being so accommodating, but it feels good and you’ve never been one to say no to your own pleasures. "They're not like me. They aren't nice."  
  
"Of course, Pappa," Snufkin says. Then, as though reading far more into your silence, he adds, hesitantly, "I'll stay clear of them."  
  
"Good." You roll into the warm space Snufkin had previously occupied and go back to sleep.

 

You wake up, whiskers twitching, a slight ache somewhere in your chest. Snufkin has been gone a while, and the sun is setting. After pondering this strange sensation in the pleasant half-asleep state that most Joxters bask in, you conclude that you miss your own Snufkin.

Joxters are social creatures by nature, but for reasons even you don’t quite understand, you can’t be around other Joxters. The first time you saw what they do to Snufkins, you’d not slept well for a whole day. The only time you had participated, you’d not slept well for a week. It was then you realized that if you ever wanted sleep, you needed to find it elsewhere, so you did. First, in the warm bed of a nice, round Mymble, then in leaf piles and gaps between roots, wrapped around a tiny Snufkin.

You haven’t been an affectionate father to him, but despite your failings, you have been smitten since the instant you saw Snufkin with his odd dark eyes and squeaking giggle. The Mymble hadn’t batted an eye when you left with him, if she ever realized Snufkin hadn’t simply left on his own as Snufkins do. You don’t understand how people can want to hurt Snufkins when they are so enjoyable all on their own. A little dumb, a lot naive, and wild in that soft way of rabbits and deer. You enjoy soft things.

So you decide to seek out your Snufkin. You don’t know how long it's been, but it doesn't matter. Snufkins change like mountains, slowly.  
  
Even his scent is the same, once you find a trail not washed clean by rain, though it is very faint. You follow at your own pace. It meanders into the mountains and down the other side into a valley jeweled with flowers and a blue Moomin house. Far away, the sea sparkles and dances in the moonlight. Snufkin has found a lovely place to explore.  
  
When Snufkin was little, you would play hunt him, teach him how to hide and run, how to cover his tracks from any inquisitive Joxters. Most Snufkins know this instinctively as children, which is how most child Snufkins don’t get caught, but you make sure Snufkin knows why that instinct exists. Snufkins run, and Joxters hunt, and that’s how it’s always been. It's been years since you’ve hunted him.

It was always fun, hunting Snufkin when he was a child. You have instincts like any other Joxter, and they demand hunt and play. Having a little, giggly Snufkin to chase after when you had the energy satiated the urge without having to hurt anyone, though you had not indulged too often for fear of treading too close to those dark waters. You would snatch up Snufkin, enjoy his shrieking, then fall asleep curled around him. Until Snufkin became impossible to catch. Until Snufkin would come to you, because you’d given up the chase in favor of a nap. Until Snufkin stopped doing that, even, as he grew older.

He’s a clever Snufkin. But you know how he thinks.

You pause, scent the air. You smell flowers, thick and heavy, the distant salt spray of the ocean, and cooking from the little town twinkling by an inlet. There's a smell you can't recognize, but it's faint, unimportant. Then -- _there_ .

Snufkin is nearby. You begins to hunt in earnest.

 

 

You follow Snufkin on a path no other Joxter could follow, until it meets a campsite, one that's old but reeks of musk and heady tobacco. You force down the spike of panic. There's another Joxter here. And Snufkin stumbled across him.

That strange scent is stronger now, and all semblance of play is abandoned. You need to find Snufkin _now_.

The trail vanishes in a tangle of perfume, blood, and acrid chemicals. Snufkin's scent is drowning in foreign smells, the ground is littered with signs of struggle. Much of it is old, lingering, mixed with fresh scents. It’s the strangest nest you have ever seen.

A Joxter is spilling out of a canoe, eyes closed as he munches on an apple. You scan for any others, but see none.

“Hello, friend,” the Joxter purrs and pours himself entirely out onto the ground. Flowers are caught in the rope on his hat and petals cover him. He finishes his apple in two more bites, throws the core away past piles of green Snufkin bags. Your gaze flickers over them, searching for your Snufkin’s. You don’t see it, but that means nothing. There are so many packs.

“Goodbye.” You around and begin to walk to the edge of the clearing.

The Joxter scrambles to his feet. “Wait, wait, dear, don’t you want to stay a bit? I have a lovely Snufkin with the strangest laugh —“

“No.”

“—and the strangest eyes… oh.” The Joxter makes a quiet, understanding noise and pulls back. “Now that I see you properly, I know you.”

You say nothing, turn heel. You bite the stem of your pipe to keep your nerves in check. Snufkin’s been caught, despite everything.

“Happy told me about you. The lies he’d spout! Saying you’d never do anything to him, that you _cared_. But we know better, don’t we? I put him straight on that, except,” the Joxter looks around. “I seem to have misplaced him. Or Bendy did. But either way, he’s absolutely lovely. If you’d like to stay…?”

You’re already in the forest, the question fading before it can finish. Snufkin isn’t here, that’s all you need to know. The fact that he apparently _named_ Snufkin is just one more sickening detail you didn’t need to know. It curdles in your belly, the idea of a name, and such a mocking one. _Happy._

Snufkin’s laughter, his smile, are something unique to him that you have always enjoyed. Most Snufkins savor the world in a quiet way, a way that you’re never quite sure what they’re thinking, but your Snufkin for whatever reason is different. His laughter is an easy tell if he’s enjoying something, or scared, a flitting noise like a bird chirp, like a Joxter’s vocalizations.

You come up sharp, having been going in no direction in particular except away. The sound of stumbling and sobbing are suddenly the only noises in the forest. Nothing here is safe, not for a Snufkin. Maybe not for a Joxter, either. There's something wrong in these woods.  
  
"Snufkin," you hiss in the darkness, reaching for a pale flash of wrist just above his natural black glove. Snufkin was always so pallid, to spite the sun.  
  
Snufkin screams, and it's stifled by your paw. Sounds are targets, he should know this, but he's panicked. Terrified.  
  
You reel him in, hug him close and steps backwards, feeling more than seeing the path. Though Snufkin struggles, it's weak.  
  
"Shhhh," you whisper, then fall silent until you’re somewhere away from the danger. You slip a bit and look down. A bridge, something old and rotting into mushrooms and slime. The water trickles low beneath it, low enough for two mumriks to hide underneath. Snufkin isn't struggling anymore.  
  
"Pappa?"  
  
"Yes, dear." You push him underneath, then follow.  
  
"Don't-- don't--"  Snufkin gasps out, slipping in the mud and collapsing. Finally, you look at Snufkin.  
  
You say nothing as Snufkin continues to fight the mud and fails. It's like watching a fish die. Your poor, poor Snufkin.  
  
It's easy enough to see a Joxter has gotten hold of him, despite all your efforts. He has no trousers on, no shoes. His legs are covered in paw-shaped bruises, bloody claw marks, all the way down from the white of his thighs to the black socks of his paws. There’s some sharp-smelling, dark fluid on him. Something else, too, then. Some kind of animal. You’ve never known a Joxter to keep pets before.  
  
"Calm down," you say reasonably, reaching out to help. "You're safe now."  
  
"Don't!" he shrieks again, like you burned him. "Don't touch me!"  
  
You sit back. They're far enough from where you found Snufkin, far enough from the other Joxter, that you’re sure Snufkin’s safe.

"I need to. You're hurt." You try to keep your voice calm, but a slow anger is building. You’re not like other Joxters, you don’t _share_ Snufkins, especially not your own. Actually seeing the abuses is so much worse than just knowing he was caught. This is beyond even a normal Joxter’s cruelty. Snufkin is shaking in exhaustion, thinner than he once was.

Snufkin hits you when you try to unbutton his coat. It startles more than hurts, and you almost lose Snufkin as he scrambles out the other side of the bridge. You catch his scarf, his coat. “Stop!” you command, and Snufkin does, instinctively. You’ve only used that tone when he’s in danger, and no matter what has happened that has been ingrained in Snufkin.

“You met a Joxter.” You want Snufkin to know that you know, without it needing explaining. Snufkin’s breathing fast and light, trembling. You don’t know how to comfort him, only tend to the broken bones in his fingers, the bruising and cuts on his face. “And something else.”

“You’re sick,” Snufkin says so quietly, it’s barely a breath, before his voice spikes up in panic again. “Sick! He told me what you do! What _you_ want to do to me. Rape me. T-torture me.”

You say nothing, make no attempt to defend yourself. Now is not the time.

“Pappa, why would you do —“

“ _Quiet_.” You don’t want to hear anymore. “I’m doing nothing, now, except tending your wounds.”

Snufkin falls silent, like when he was a sullen little child. But now you feel the knotted tension in his muscles.

“Did you ever hurt a Snufkin?” He’s more disobedient, talking again. You try not to mind, despite what the questions are.

“Yes.”

“Y’ enjoy hurting us.” His words slur a little, and his eyes are unfocused and heavily bruised underneath. It looks like he hasn’t slept in days, and all his desperate movements are weak, confused.

“No.”

“Hunting us.”

You’re silent. Snufkin starts to cry. He’s caught now, your fingers around his wrists. You study the swelling on his knuckles, turning the black skin shiny and purplish. You can’t even promise Snufkin that you won’t hurt him, because this will hurt.

“Joxters are different from Snufkins. I told you to stay away from us for a reason.”

“They said y’ raised me to keep me. T’ —“ he giggles wetly “— t’ enjoy me, like fruit.”

You huff a laugh, deeper and less giddy than Snufkin’s, but just as inappropriate to the situation. “A poetic Joxter is even worse,” you mutter. Snufkin falls less responsive now, letting your paws wander up his bare legs, assessing the damages done to him. The signs of rape are obvious, and there are scratches that are hot with infection. “I need to —“ your words are cut off by a kick to the face.

Snufkin begs you not to do anything, even as he lashes out, making you _want_ to do something. You catch his foot and drag him down into the mud before he can kick you again. You taste blood. Snufkin fights, more than other Snufkins. You don’t understand why a Joxter would have kept him for days. He isn’t worth the effort to keep, to torture. You made sure of that.

When Snufkin won’t let you continue, you settle for just holding him. Snufkin’s weak fighting subsides as he resigns himself to whatever you want. To keep him safe, though Snufkin is in no condition to believe you. His injuries, the horrible new words he says — it took time to get him to this point. You tend to what you can of the physical harm. The rest will come later.

You grab Snufkin’s jaw and hold him firmly in place. Snufkin’s face is warm and ashen. Poetic and lazy, not caring for him properly. “I need to wash your wounds,” you say slowly. Snufkin nods. He has no choice. He must be used to that by now.

There’s no fight as Snufkin shivers and cries at each touch of your wet scarf-end cleaning off the grime and fluids. It’s invasive and personal, and the way Snufkin flinches stabs at you like you’ve eaten glass. Snufkin’s thoughts are dark, gross, and it hurts to think your own child could think this of you, but at the same time, you understand. The evidence is written all on his skin, and more still is scarred into his mind.

The injuries are as clean as you can make them, though the mud poses an issue, and you have nothing to tend to the wounds. That’s always something Snufkin carried, once he was older. Snufkins are far more prone to injury than Joxters, who never do anything most days.

“I need to get some supplies.” You crawl toward the edge of the bridge. That other Joxter has plenty of bags.

“Pappa,” Snufkin says quietly, arresting any movement. He grabs your long, dirtied scarf. “’m scared.” His slurring trails off into a giggle. “m scared of _you_.” The other Joxter calls him Happy. He’s smiling now, even, but it’s tense and unsure, and he won’t let you go. Everything about him is a contradiction, and he himself seems aware of the absurdity of the situation.

“Just stay here, dear,” you say, ignoring the way Snufkin’s eyes widen, the bubble of laughter that escapes. He’s so afraid. The Joxter doesn’t want to leave him but has to. He also doesn’t want him running. “Sleep until I get back.”

“S-sleep?” He sounds almost hopeful. You nod and unwind your scarf, long and knitted, stained now with blood and mud. It’s shoved into a drier section of the bridge, and Snufkin is nudged after. Snufkin flinches at the contact, but complies. Despite his fears and worries, he soon succumbs to sleep.

You don’t leave right away. Instead, you watch Snufkin lay there like the dead, exhaustion forestalling any nightmares. His eyes are ringed and dark, his hair lank and dirty. He stinks of sweat, sex, and fear instead of the earthy smell of herbs and smoke from your pipe that you’d occasionally share. It’s something you won’t ever do again with Snufkin, and the loss of such a small, insignificant activity aches.

Your anger is tempered by a sense of horror at what Snufkin’s endured. You’re reminded so strongly of those Snufkins you’ve seen trapped by Joxters and broken for no other reason than they are Snufkins. You never wanted that for your own. It drowns your anger, because it’s too late to be angry. Anger won’t help Snufkin.

You run your fingers down the side of Snufkin’s face, from his temple to his chin, let him turn his face to press against the familiar touch. He’s too warm, but he can still survive, even if he won’t ever trust you like he once had. You have to accept that, and gladly, so long as he does survive.

A moment more, then you leave.

 

 

You prowl through the woods, keeping low to the ground and weaving between tall, dark trunks. This is far more activity than you’ve done in a long, long time, but you don’t linger on your discomfort, how overwhelmed your senses are by whatever is out here. You’d like nothing more than to cuddle Snufkin and sleep, but can’t.

You almost collide with something black and viscous. The scent of it burns your nose this close. You fall against a tree as the thing — it’s hard to make out in the shadow of the trees, but it is definitely some kind of creature — casts about, tail lashing. It’s taller than you at least twice over, nothing but some skeletal frame dipped in darkness. It doesn’t seem to realize you’re here. You choke back a startled chuckle and back away silently, heart thudding in your throat.

The creature tosses its head, sending something that almost seems like ink scattering. Some droplets hit you. Its attention follows. You freeze.

It steps closer, large claws sinking into the leaves on the ground, crushing them. You breathe through your mouth to offset the jarring chemical stink. Its teeth are as long as your forearm, jagged and sharp. Snufkin smells like it. This thing is that Joxter’s pet.

It’s scenting you with wet, bubbling chuffing noises that spatter more ink, before it decides you’re of no interest. You don’t know why, but it doesn’t seem to have any way to perceive the world, no eyes nor ears nor nose.

As soon as you’re several yards away, you let yourself process the creature. It’s something that shouldn’t exist, you know this in your bones like you know when rain is coming, when Snufkin’s nearby. It’s weird and wrong, and no Joxter, no matter their inclinations, should associate with. You gag on the chemical fumes still clinging to you, gag on the thought of it touching Snufkin, staining him.

With that thing, it becomes a more pressing matter to get Snufkin somewhere far away and safe. The other Joxter might be particularly lazy, but his pet is already hunting. It seems bad at it, which is some small comfort, and heading in the wrong direction, which decides for you whether you get the supplies or return to Snufkin. Without aid sooner rather than later, Snufkin will die. You can feel it in your whiskers.

You circle back to the other’s campsite, alert for any sign of the creature, and reach it with a worrying sort of ease. The packs are piled high, and you grab the first one that won’t disturb the rest.

“Hello, again,” the other Joxter says from his canoe. “Aren’t you busy?”

You ignore him, check that the bag has first aid supplies, then, since you’re already caught, you rifle through some others for more.

“Did you find something fun?” It takes some energy, but the other Joxter rouses himself to a sitting position and yawns. “Or someone? You could bring him back here, we could enjoy him together.”

“I don’t share.”

“Rude. But that’s okay. I can share with Bendy. Again, and again, and again...”

“What is that thing?” You ask, interrupting him.

“Bendy?” He says, not minding the interruption since it isn’t like a Snufkin interrupting. You know many Joxters like that. “Some sort of demon, I think. He’s great fun when you can convince him not to rape Snufkins to death and eat them. Talks a lot, though.”

“So do you.” You take your pack and walk off, trying not to think on how there are so many packs. So many Snufkins.

“But my stories are good. I could share some, like what I’ve done to Happy,” the Joxter calls out, voice growing louder to compensate for distance. “He’s really quite the slut. Spreads his legs for...”

You’re glad when you can’t hear the other’s voice anymore. You’re less glad when you hear Snufkin screaming.

“‘M sorry! ‘M sorry! I didn’t mean to —“ his pleas are cut off by another shriek. Fear shoots through you, and you run.

That thing, Bendy, perches on the splinters of the bridge like some nightmare buzzard. There’s fresh blood in the air, though you can’t tell where it’s coming from. Bendy’s tail lashes like an agitated cat, and one large paw is wrapped around Snufkin’s leg, hiking it obscenely high, almost as though it wants to tear it off. Snufkin’s coat is bunched up at his ribs, exposing his pale belly, and he’s clawing desperately at the riverbed.

Its head snaps up as you approach. You don’t know how it found Snufkin so quickly, how it’s left a path so unlike itself, void of ink and large, dangerous paw prints. It’s smarter than you realized.

“Pappa,” Snufkin gasps. “Pappa, please —“ Bendy tightens its grip, and Snufkin’s words die with a pained wheeze. Whatever Bendy is, it’s excited. Raped to death, that’s what the other Joxter said. Its dick is long, tapered, and dripping, angled to slither into Snufkin.

Instead of continuing with its rape, Bendy’s head is turned toward you. You want to save Snufkin, the urge is overwhelming, that same one that had you diving after Snufkin when he was a child, when you both could have drowned.But this isn’t a river, it’s a monster. Much as you wanted to spare him pain, you couldn’t have prepared Snufkin for this.

“Can you understand me?” you ask Bendy, inching forward. If its attention is on you, it’s not on Snufkin. It tilts its head. “Can you get off of Snufkin?” It nods, lifts its paw a little. Snufkin gasps and sobs. You’re close enough now to touch Snufkin, and reach out for him. “It’s okay, dear,” you murmur, eyes lowered so that Bendy doesn’t feel threatened; you’re not sure what sort of animal it is, or what cues it looks for.

“No, pappa, nonono, don’t— don’t,” Snufkin moans weakly, free leg kicking. He doesn’t seem that aware, exhausted and terrified into confusion, and you stroke his face.

You don’t see the paw that slams down on top of you, pinning him to the muddy riverbed. All semblance of calm vanishes as you twist and push yourself up a little out of the muck. Something aches on your face, underneath the feel of mud.

Bendy wraps its long claws around Snufkin, positions his limp body with its other paw and tail. He’s not fighting. You want him to fight or protest or anything, but Snufkin is so, so tired. He’s fought for so long. You see it in his sluggish movements, his begging as though you want this. If Snufkin won’t try to save himself, you will have to.

“Please, Bendy,” you say quickly, hoping that its name helps you get through all that viscous ink. “Please don’t. He’s my son. We can find you someone else. I know a Snufkin who likes —“

Bendy shoves in. You feel the entry like it’s happening to you, not your son. Snufkin spasms and lets out a pained, whistling giggle.

You can’t stop this.

You can’t help Snufkin. Snufkin’s fingers twist in your coat sleeve and leave bruising marks on your skin, you’re so close, but he’s struggling just under the weight of Bendy’s paw already. Every thrust pushes you lower into the mud, pulls a moist cry from Snufkin and leverages him unnaturally with a squelching, sucking sound.

You have never been a very affectionate father, but you dearly want to comfort Snufkin, now. There’s blood on his thighs, mixing with the ink, and something is _writhing_ inside of him, visible under the skin. Your gorge rises and you feel you’re about to be sick. You swallow it down, and turn Snufkin’s face toward yourself.

“It’s okay, dear,” you say, a reflexive, watery smile on your face, though there’s nothing to smile about. Nothing about this is okay.

Snufkin is having trouble breathing, but his lips are trying to form words. You hug him as best you can in this awkward, terrifying position. It’s all you can do.

The rape drags on, and you wonder if you’ve been killed and this is hell. Bendy is some kind of demon, after all, tormenting you, torturing Snufkin. Snufkin’s been living this hell for ages.

“It’s okay,” you repeat. It’s such a lie, you can’t help but let out a short-lived laugh.

The noise freezes Bendy, who looks at you again. You don’t care what it’s doing, and just nuzzle against Snufkin, who’s crying and laughing, too.

Snufkin’s laughter cuts off abruptly, and you finally look up. It takes a moment to understand what you’re seeing, because it makes no sense whatsoever. Several thin black things are stabbing up through Snufkin’s stomach, stark against the pale skin.

“Oh, _spikes_ ,” Snufkin giggles out. His strange, empty acceptance is torn away as Bendy begins to move again. The spikes tear furrows that immediately well with blood. Then Bendy’s movements grow more frenetic, more violent.

Snufkin screams and doesn’t stop screaming as Bendy leaves gouges all the way to his sternum. This can’t be real. It doesn’t feel real. Nothing like Bendy could exist. Nothing could do this to another living being.

Snufkin is real, though. He feels far _too_ real in your arms as his body convulses. Bendy lets you go so it can brace itself better, deepen the angle and thrust. Your first thought is to push it away, but your arms just sink in anywhere you touch, and Snufkin’s crying, and sometimes he says pappa, and you can do nothing to get Bendy off. Bendy shoves you back down, away from Snufkin.

“I’m so sorry,” you say as Snufkin’s eyes roll back. You know deep down this is somehow your fault — for having a Snufkin in the first place, for not letting him die painlessly and young. You’d take the blame for anything if it stopped this from happening.

Snufkin vomits bile and blood. You don’t know if Snufkin can hear you, and you drag yourself an inch or two closer, telling him any comforting thing you never told him in life. How he’s such a sweet Snufkin, how he doesn’t deserve any of this. You want to touch Snufkin. Your fingers are so, so close. You’ve never told him before that you love him, and repeat it over and over.

There’s one more wet burble of blood, a jerk, then stillness. Bendy lets you both go, and you scramble painfully to Snufkin.

You steel yourself to view the damage, hoping futilely that something can be done to save Snufkin.

His entire stomach is a fleshy mass of blood and viscera and ink, staining his green overcoat black in the darkness. At some point Bendy had begun thrusting through him, leaving messy tears all across his belly, black gashes in his thighs. There’s bruising around his ribs, too, and his breathing is so labored you suspect something’s been torn or punctured. Loops of ruptured intestine and strings of gore drip between his splayed legs. The stink of death is already on him. You jerk away and vomit, finally, tasting acid and ink.

Snufkin’s trying to talk, and failing so miserably. “P’ppa. H’lp. Pleassse…”

You can’t admit that you _can’t_ help, so just cradle Snufkin and coo and lie to him. “Of course, dear. You’re safe, shush, don’t try to talk.”

Snufkin continues feebly to move, to speak. To _survive_ . It’s pathetic and hurts. Every breath Snufkin tries to take is a hook buried somewhere inside being yanked. He asks you why, the only word you can make out now, and you hate that there’s no reason for this. It’s all so _pointless_.

He dies with a few, final bloody hiccoughs. It’s not sudden, but all too soon, and horribly understated. Then nothing. Snufkin’s dead. You’re left holding a heavy, cooling corpse.

“Sorry, I thought you said get off _in_ him,” someone says with a laugh. You don’t look up. You don’t care. Everything you did care about lays gutted in your arms. “Are you gonna play with him some more, or can I eat him?”

That catches your attention. You scan the dark woods for Bendy, before finding a facsimile of it standing there, small and cute and round.

“Are you _crying_?” The little creature asks. “Over a Snufkin?”

“He’s my son,” you reply numbly. You are crying, you didn’t notice before. The tears flow down hot, thin trails through the splatters of blood and mud on your face.

Bendy squints at you as though it can’t comprehend why that matters, and you return your attention to the body. It’s not Snufkin anymore. You don’t know how to process that. Bendy’s saying something about the Joxter — it must mean that other one — being upset, but it’s all background noise to the strange nightmare in your arms.

This was your child, once. That meant nothing to the other Joxter, means nothing to Bendy, but it knots heavy and hard in your stomach. Snufkin had been smart, had been wily, and he’d been reduced to a plaything nonetheless. As though he didn’t even matter, just like every other Snufkin.

You curl around Snufkin like you’d do when he was young and scared. It had comforted Snufkin, then. You know this is just a body, not your Snufkin, but there’s nothing else you can do.


	2. Happy

Bendy doesn’t shut up.  Time has stopped. You sit there holding Snufkin, his blood soaking into your clothes, and Bendy just. Keeps. Talking.

You don’t hear its words, just tones and inflections, leaving barely a mark like a footprint in desert sand.

“You said ya knew another Snufkin, yeah?” Bendy asks, shaking you this time. It must have asked before, because it sounds a little irritated.

“No.” You’re not going to let this happen to someone else, eager as you’d been before to let it happen to anyone else but Snufkin.

“But you said — ah, whatever. I’ll figure out something.”

You ignore it again and stroke Snufkin’s face. His expression is twisted up in fear, a pained grin on his lips. That’s how he died, and you did nothing to stop it. You start to think you might have made it happen. You were the one who told him to sleep, who decided to get supplies instead of return immediately to him. You’re his father, and you failed him. The one time a Joxter tries to care for a Snufkin.

You let out a sad, cracked laugh and hunch over, a few more poorly-timed laughs slipping free behind your glove. It stinks of mud and blood and, most heavily, ink. Everything does.

“You laugh, too,” Bendy says, right in front of you. You glance up. It’s leaning over Snufkin’s body, a paw carelessly splayed on his face, the other sinking into the pulp of his stomach. You shove it off. Snufkin’s not some prop.

“You’re meaner, though. Happy knew not to hit me.” There’s a warning in Bendy’s voice that means nothing to you. If it wants to kill you, too, so be it. It’s some horrible little monster, you expect nothing less.

“Go away.”

“Nah. I have a better idea. But you need to get out of your clothes and into Happy’s.”

You stare at Bendy.

“Oh, come on,” it says dramatically. “It’s a classic move. The swap. He won’t know the difference, trust me.”

It’s talking nonsense.

“Am I gonna have to undress ya, too?” Bendy asks at your lack of response. “I guess so, if we’re going anywhere tonight.”

This really is a nightmare, you think, as ink boils up around Bendy’s form, elongating it like the swipes of an overloaded brush, droplets falling thick and heavy on you and Snufkin. One of its paws knocks you in the chest, sending you sprawling away from Snufkin with a breathless gasp.

You scramble to your paws and knees to get back to him, though you know, you know, he’s just a corpse, and Bendy grabs you in one long-clawed paw. You’d yell, but ink covers your mouth. Your coat and sweater are taken, torn, and Bendy shakes Snufkin free of his coat. His body moves stiffly, sickeningly, but Bendy is determined. Something snaps. Like a blind child dressing an unhappy cat, it puts Snufkin’s coat on you, then his scarf.

You’re dropped unceremoniously in the churned up muck. Immediately you search for Snufkin. Bendy is a step ahead, though, and flings him at you, then pulls him away before you can process what it’s done. Blood and fleshy lumps cling to you.

Bendy leans forward and contemplates the mess. Its tongue slips out to taste your face, a mixture of mud, Snufkin’s blood, and your own from a cut you didn’t notice before, until suddenly there’s ink stinging in it. Whatever it decides, it snatches you up again.

Your every struggle is absorbed as you try to wriggle and kick and scratch your way out of Bendy’s grip. It lopes oddly with only three legs, a nauseating gait that ends only when you’re back in the Joxter’s territory. By then you’ve used up your energy. Joxters don’t have a lot in the first place.

Bendy drops you right beside the canoe and melts down into its smaller self. It sends a conspiratorial smile your way and presses a finger to its lips. Like this is some shared plan.

“What on earth?” the Joxter asks once Bendy’s annoyed him awake.

“I got Happy back!” Bendy chirps.

The Joxter examines you. You’re busy wiping at the ink on your mouth, coughing up dripping strands of it. It’s something so vile, you don’t know how the Joxter can tolerate the stink.

“That’s not Happy, darling. That is very much not Happy.” He sounds a little distressed.

“Y’see, there was this little, uh, accident…”

“Bendy, this is a Joxter you have captured.”

Bendy huffs and crosses its arms like a petulant child. “It’s Happy. He even laughs, see?” It turns to you and smiles. “Hey, pal, why don’t ya give us a chuckle?”

You wipe your mouth and try to stand. Bendy wraps its white-gloved fingers around your paw and yanks you down.

“C’mon, you laughed before. Can’t even manage a smile? Remember that Snufkin, that made ya laugh.” Bendy’s crazy. It’s absolutely mad, and trying to drag you into its madness. “He was funny, though, wasn’t he?”

A disbelieving smile flits across your face and you huff something that might be a laugh, if someone is looking for one. Funny. Snufkin is just some joke to them.

“See, Jox,” Bendy crows. “He’s obviously Happy.”

The Joxter contemplates you silently. You jerk your paw out of Bendy’s and spit up some more ink. You want to tell them something but no words are coming to mind. No words can properly encapsulate your disgust and horror.

You leap at the Joxter with a wordless scream.

He shrieks and you both fall back into the canoe, sending fluff and petals scattering.

“Bendy get him off of me!” the Joxter yells as you wrap your paws around his throat and squeeze. “Bend-urg—“ His paws shove against you, cling to the bloody mess of Snufkin’s coat. You see nothing but him holding down Snufkin and raping him, torturing him. You want to drown this Joxter in the awful filler of his nest. Smother him and leave him to rot. If you can’t kill Bendy, then —

When Bendy picks you up and slams you into the ground, you barely even register it. You’re still fighting to get to the Joxter, who sits up coughing. It slams you again, and breathing becomes impossible.

“He,” the Joxter gasps. “He is obviously not Happy.”

Ink pours over your face, into your mouth and nose, blocking your eyes. You yell and thrash, still enraged, but soon that becomes impossible. The Joxter’s yelling something, too. Then things get quiet.

 

  
You don’t know when you pass out, only that you wake up, it’s daytime, and you’ve been tied to a tree. The Joxter is cooking something, but all you can smell and taste is ink.

“Are you calmer now?” he asks from across the flames. His scarf is draped loosely, showing the bruises from your attack. Bendy’s sitting beside him doing something with a pile of flowers.

“Why aren’t I dead?” you ask. Your voice is surprisingly level.

“I don’t want you dead, simple as that. Why do Snufkins ask such stupid questions?”

You wonder, momentarily, if he hit his head in the fall.

“I don’t know, but it’s real rude to assume we just kill people, y’know?” Bendy says. “Why do you always gotta be like this, Happy?”

You wonder if you hit your head. “Happy?”

“Are you feeling well, dear?” The Joxter asks, coming over with a bowl of soup. “Did you forget who you were? I told you you hit him too hard,” he adds to Bendy, who ignores him in favor of mangling more flowers. You think he’s trying to make a wreath.

The Joxter settles down beside you and holds up the bowl. You purse your lips tight, and he only succeeds in splashing some broth down your chin. He pulls it back with a disappointed sigh.

“I could kill you right now,” the Joxter says quietly, speaking to you as a Joxter, then raises his voice and addresses you as though you’re Snufkin. “You’re always so difficult, Happy, which is how we wound up in this situation.”

“I’m not Snufkin.That thing murdered Snufkin.” You jerk your head at Bendy, who glances up innocently and waves.

“It’s rude to call people things. His name is Bendy.”

Bendy comes over at the sound of its name, flower wreath draped over its horns and falling to pieces already. You glare at Bendy, but are silent. You have nothing to say to it.

It pokes your face. You snap at its fingers and get slapped. “You’re mean,” Bendy whines. “When’d you get so mean, Happy?”

“Now, now, Bendy, he’s just having some trouble readjusting,” the Joxter says. “Why don’t you work on your flowers and I’ll talk to him?”

Bendy leaves, though he stays close enough to listen, like a child relishing another getting in trouble.

“I need to explain something to you,” the Joxter said very peaceably. “And I want you to listen very carefully, Happy. You are a Snufkin. Snufkins don’t bite, or snip, or try to strangle Joxters. They’re fucked and they cry and they die. That’s all you’re good for, and if you don’t accept that soon, you’ll get to the dying part very quickly.”

You realize what’s going on, though it’s absolutely mad. Everything else here is, so why not the Joxter’s plan? Why not the Joxter? Bendy knows you’re a Joxter. It doesn’t care who it’s hurting, who it’s killing.

A small, derisive laugh escapes. “One day it’ll do the same to you. Just like a Snufkin.”

This time you get punched. But you’re left alone again.

Alone turns out to be as bad as with them. Alone you’re left with your thoughts. Alone your anger turns on you, ravenous. There’s so much more you could have done. Snufkin died thinking you wanted this, you’re sure of that now. Thinking you’re like this Joxter, who’s sick and twisted beyond even the norm.

Bendy finds you with your legs curled as best they can and tears staining your face. It figured out something approximating a flower crown, though petals are stuck all over it.

“Are you crying again?” it asks. “What’s got ya all sad now, Happy?”

“I’m not Happy,” you grind out from behind clenched teeth. “He’s dead.”

“Sure ya are. Even the Joxter agrees. He told me ‘Well, I guess you’re right, Bendy. That’s Happy.’ I told you my plan would work.”

“He agrees because you’re both insane. You know what I am, he knows what I am, and I’m not going to play your stupid game.”

“I could make you play ‘em, like I did with your kid. Wanna hear what games we played?”

You lash out with your leg and succeed in knocking it over. Bendy springs back up and leaps at you. You’re angry, you want it angry, and somewhere inside you know it’s because you want it to kill you.

You yell anything you think will make it mad, that the Joxter’s just humoring it, using it, that it’s pathetic, falling for the Joxter’s lies. You say some things you’d tried to keep quiet, about Snufkin and caring and such un-Joxterish sentiments, and that thing killed him. You aren’t going to be quiet.

Something slices down your front, and it hurts, but your paws are free to fight against the rancid ooze of Bendy’s ink. It’s bigger and bonier and suddenly claws are in your mouth, prying it open.

The pain that follows engulfs your face, radiating from slashes dug into your cheeks, from your mouth, dripping down your throat alongside far, far too much blood. Your vision speckles and darkens, and you’re sure you’re going to die, but that it won’t be half as agonizing as it was for Snufkin. You don’t want the last thing you think of to be his mangled corpse.

Bendy steps back, reverts back to its smaller form. You gurgle on blood, hazy vision slowly focusing on it. Your mouth won’t close right. Everything feels wrong with it, and your paws rise to press against it.

“You talk too much, Happy,” it says happily, and you realize it wasn’t angry, at least not in an explosive way. A smile is affixed to its face, and in its paw is a pinkish, meaty mass dripping blood. Your mouth feels empty, air whistles in with every breath through slices that run from lips to ear.

“Bendy, what on earth did you do?” the Joxter asks.

“I made him Happy. Look!”

The Joxter is looking, pale gaze intense on you. All you can do is wheeze and gag and hold your mouth shut with blood-slicked hands. If you don’t, you feel like your jaw will fall off. The agony slithers hot down your throat, up into your brain.

“And what’s that in your paw?”

“His tongue. He was sayin’ some real mean things about you.”

“So you tore out his tongue?” The Joxter looks queasy, face ashen. He licks his lips, as though suddenly aware of his own tongue. Then, gathering himself, he adds, “Such a nasty Snufkin, Happy.”

Bendy looks at you with an expression of glee at the Joxter’s words, as though to say ‘I told you so.’

The Joxter kneels next to you and pries one of your paws away from the damage. He sighs. “You’ll need stitches. And more rope. Gauze...” Then, after a moment more assessing the reddish mixture of blood and drool, he adds, “And a knife.”

Bendy shoves your tongue into its mouth like a snack, before it bounces off to retrieve those things. It nauseates you. Everything about Bendy does.

The Joxter brushes your hair back soothingly, then jams his filthy fingers into your mouth. You cry out, try feebly to bite him and only succeed on weakly gnawing. “I know it can be hard, Happy, dear, but you do these things to yourself by provoking him.”

You groan around his fingers, and your paws pull at his sleeve.

“Do you like this?” the Joxter asks in feigned surprise, pressing harder to get more of a reaction. “Snufkins are all alike, aren’t you? Such sluts.”

You want to protest, but can’t. There’s only pain and a cottoniness making thinking hard. Snufkin lived through this. It’s all you can process, what they must have done to him if this is what they’re doing to you. Joxters just don’t hurt other Joxters. It’s a fact of life, and yet —

They tie you up again, arms pulled tight around the tree, wrapped around your waist and looped around your thighs. The Joxter sets up at the campfire, heating the knife. You watch him with a fuzzy sort of numbness. You should be terrified, but you can’t muster it.

He’s saying something about moving fast, because… because you lost what he was talking about. You suppose it doesn’t matter anyway. Snufkin was — you snap to attention, you forgot about Snufkin. He’s out there somewhere, and you’re sitting here with some Joxter and doing nothing.

“He’s panicking,” Bendy calls out to the Joxter. Of course you’re panicking, Snufkin’s in trouble, you don’t know what but —

No. No, wait.

Snufkin’s dead.

This doesn’t stop your panic. They killed him and won’t kill you. You realize this as the Joxter is shoving something hot and metallic into your mouth. It hits your teeth, zings through the pain, sears through the chemical scent and replaces it with burnt blood and flesh. You scream behind the knife and writhe against the rope.

Then it’s gone, and stinging alcohol flushes your mouth, pours out the torn sides, before you’re tilted forward to let it all drip out. The Joxter begins stitching up your cheeks. He shoves gauze into your mouth and wraps a strip around your head to hold it in place. You feel like you’re being smothered, but just stare at the ground between your legs. It’s mostly old crushed grass and kicked up leaves, like someone else had been here before. Snufkin had. You’re sitting where Snufkin sat.

You don’t lose consciousness this time, but you lose your sense of place. You feel far away, yet too close to yourself. Blood is pounding in your ears. The Joxter is talking to Bendy but all they’re saying is gibberish. Words string together out of order, fading in and out; everything’s too slow or too fast.

The Joxter’s purr mixes with Bendy’s higher, cheery chirp mixes with a rushing, roaring agony.

 

You become aware that it’s night, or early morning. The Joxter is rubbing up against you like a cat in heat.

You make a weak noise.

“Oh, you’re awake,” the Joxter says. You can’t tell him you never slept, only drifted through some syrupy state of semi-awareness. You’re exhausted. “Don’t mind me,” he continues, and you never thought before why you were tied like this until he’s between your legs and hiking up Snufkin’s overcoat to grope you sleepily beneath it. He grunts at what he finds there, puts all his weight against you. One paw holds you against him as he grinds.

You laugh behind the gauze in your mouth, and it hurts. A Joxter raping another Joxter. Pretending he’s a Snufkin. Or maybe he’s not pretending anymore, and really thinks you are. You don’t know, but you hate the Joxter. Somehow you’re sure it’s his fault Snufkin’s dead, though Bendy did the deed. It’s certainly his fault Snufkin thought — Snufkin thought such horrible things, had been tortured.

He shows no care for your thinking and just comes against you like you’re some prop. The Joxter pats your cheek — sending stinging pain lacing up your face — and slinks away to his nest again.

His seed sits cold on your thighs, and you feel a crust when you shift like this has happened before. You don’t remember any other times, but you’d been tied up with your trousers on, yet they seem to have vanished, and everything hurts in ways like you’d not moved them for days. Time has passed and left you somewhere in the lurch. You feel strangely gross now, and you know it’s only a fraction of what Snufkin went through, what you tried to keep him safe from.

Bendy watches you as you try pointlessly to close your legs. They hurt like they’d been in one position for too long, and they have old, ringed bruising from the rope that suggests they have. It seems to relish the struggle you’re going through, and approaches.

“You’ve been out for ages. The Joxter says you almost died of blood loss or trauma or something. Why are Snufkins so hard to keep alive?”

You try to respond. The sounds are garbled and muffled, nothing even approaching words, and all they do is ache. Bendy laughs.

Later, the gauze is removed. You’re not dead, but you want to be. A weight you never noticed before is absent, stolen away with your tongue, and your cheeks leak water as it’s forced into your mouth. The Joxter gives you broth again, and this time you can’t refuse. More burning alcohol, then fresh gauze is replaced.

“He’s not hot,” the Joxter announces, a paw to your face.

“He’s boring, though.”

“You tore out his tongue, darling. You need to be gentle with Snufkins. Start small.”

Bendy climbs into the Joxter’s lap so it can, bizarrely, be petted. The Joxter is examining you. You stare back. “There’s still something odd about you,” he mutters to himself.

You choke on a laugh. You’re the oddity, of course. Not a man who rapes and tortures for fun, who keeps company with demons, but you. Bendy claps a little.

“Good to see your humor ain’t damaged, Happy,” it says, to which the Joxter hums in thoughtful agreement. They’re feeding off of each other, deciding what’s real. Your head hurts too badly to deal with it. Everything stinks of ink and drips white flowers, and you wish you could sleep.

They spend your time recovering impeding it in any way possible. Bendy especially seems determined to deny you any peace. You can’t ever respond to his words, and it frustrates you nearly to tears.

“You're just not the person ya used to be, Happy,” it says, poking your nose. “You've changed,” it says, ruffling your hair, yanking the dark tips. “It’s like I don’t even know you anymore, you’re like a completely different person,” it says with mock sadness. It seems to talk endlessly, through days and nights. You wish it’d rip something else off so you could focus on that instead, or that you’d choke to death on the dry, aggravating gauze stuffed into your mouth. Anything to stop listening to it when it demands attention.

 

Eventually, the Joxter decides you don’t need the gauze, and you regret ever wanting it out when his tongue slithers into your mouth. Bendy watches with glee as you moan in protest, too weak and unused to your new mouth shapes to bite. The Joxter licks as far back as he can, across the twitching stump of your tongue. His tongue traces your teeth, prods at the slits in your cheeks and teases specks of blood. It’s vile and wet, and he pulls back, breaking strings of saliva between the two of you. Spit dribbles down your chin as you try to breathe normally.

The Joxter rapes you again, this time using your mouth as a hole. He shoves his dick deep against the stump of your tongue, past it into your throat. His movements are leisurely and rolling, his paws pull at your hair when you swallow instinctively around him.

The Joxter finishes deep in your throat, decides you’re “disappointing,” then thrusts a few more times regardless and pulls out. He melts against you to rest.

“I can’t let you go quite yet,” the Joxter says apologetically, wiping at your mouth with Snufkin’s scarf. “Not until you behave. You used to be such a good Snufkin, Happy. Just sitting there looking pretty and laughing, not trying to run or fight. And now…” he sighs longingly for something lost. “Are you still afraid of water, I wonder? Or should I make you afraid?”

You aren’t afraid of water, you think blankly. You don’t know why he’d think you are. But Snufkin was. You’d forgotten, and you’d taken him to a bridge. It had made sense at the time, and he trusted you. If he ever needed to be in water, he used to cling to you, and it was fine. But now, he must have thought — you cut off your own thoughts. You hadn’t known, and, more importantly, the Joxter knows Snufkin was afraid of water.

“Don’t look so shocked. You told me yourself, thinking your pappa cared about you just because he saved you. The idea that any Joxter would actually care. Do you think he cared now? Did you know he knew about Bendy, and he left you anyway?Did you know he was talking to me while Bendy was having his fun?”

You shake your head. You did care. You still do, and you had tried. You won’t entertain his lies. Snufkin knew you cared. He knew.

All you can see is him trying to push you away, all you hear is him begging you don’t. You make a sound of protest as the Joxter presses against you again. Your mouth won’t work right to form words, and he ignores you anyway. He stays there longer this time, enjoying your weak struggles, licking at your eyes and tasting tears.

 

You don’t know how much time passes since Snufkin died. Days and night drift by unnumbered, like they normally do. But everything is so horribly abnormal. They barely feed you, and water’s hardly more often. Sleep comes only when Bendy gets bored of prodding and telling you the terrible things that were done to Snufkin. He talks about them like they were done to you. Like you were tricked into this nest, like you were almost drowned, like you were beaten and tormented ceaselessly. On the occasion you do sleep, you’re plagued by nightmares, and you can’t tell where they end and reality begins anymore.

When you’re untied, your limbs shake too much to do anything but slip into a puddle on the ground. Cold numbness gives way to lacing fiery pain as blood flows, nerves scream. The Joxter’s actions are rote, completely unbothered by the idea that you might attack. He knows you can’t, because he’s done this before. If not to your Snufkin, to another, you’re sure.

Then he rapes you again. It’s become a staple in your day. This time you try to push him off, but it’s pathetic and he tells you as much after he hits you. You’re free, though, now. Free and entirely unable to run.

They only ever call you Happy. Happy, Happy, Happy, until it starts to sound familiar, like Joxter or Pappa. More familiar, even. You know what they’re doing and hate yourself because it’s working. You jerk at the name, glance at whoever said it, give them a response they can nettle you with later. Snufkin’s name wasn’t Happy. Your name’s not Happy. You’re not Happy, you tell yourself. You’re not.

The Joxter tells you you’re wrong, and you’ve not said anything so you don’t understand what he means. You’re not Snufkin enough, he says and the words are in order and individually make sense. Together they mean nothing to you.

He’s stroking his whiskers. “No Snufkin I’ve seen has ever had whiskers.”

Oh. That makes sense to you. Snufkins don’t have whiskers. You’re a Snufkin, yet you have whiskers. Something’s wrong in that list of thoughts. You think of your Snufkin with whiskers and huff a short-lived laugh.

“I’m glad you agree,” the Joxter purrs. He has a pack with him, you hadn’t noticed until he drops it near your head. It looks familiar, smells familiar, with a leather cord wrapped around a strap. He yanks you up by your arm until you’re sitting, then tilts your head back. You look up at the sun filtering down through the leaves, swaying hypnotically in a mixture of shadow and green-gold light. How pretty.

“Uh ah ooo o-ee?” you ask, words nothing more than noise. You still instinctively want to talk, but nothing intelligible ever comes out.

“I can’t understand you if you don’t speak clearly, dear.” The Joxter taps your cheek and it doesn’t hurt like it used to, but the twinge is a reminder of every stitch and puckered, itchy bit of skin. His fingers move to your whiskers, his touch is gentle.

It’s pleasant, having your whiskers stroked like this. They’re very sensitive, trembling in the Joxter’s paw. You forget why he’s kneeling there, distracted by the touch. It’s been hard to focus on anything these days. He brushes them back and forth, sending shivers down your spine.

Touching one’s whiskers is a very intimate thing. The last person to do this was that Snufkin, who’d curl up next to you, tail around your leg, paws on your hair and face, until you both fell asleep. Snufkins are so nice. You wonder where yours is.

The Joxter plays with your whiskers several moments longer, fingers trailing from whisker to hairline, down across your gashes, along your jaw. You doze in his paws forgetting where you are, who’s touching you. Snufkin continues his massage. Everything’s so soft and hazy.

You wake up to the Joxter curled up against you, snoring lightly. Your relaxed mood gives way to revulsion as you realize what happened. This is the man who tortured Snufkin, and you just let him pet you. You want to shove him off, wriggle away. He’s asleep, and you don’t see Bendy anywhere.

But your arms won’t cooperate, your legs can only scramble uselessly under his weight. Your stomach clenches painfully in hunger, reminding you how weak you are. The Joxter stirs. He yawns and blinks sleepy pale brown eyes at you.

“You weren’t trying to escape were you?”

You spit at him. Your reaction is partially shame at being so easily lulled, partially anger at him being so familiar with you, and mostly the hatred that’s colored your every interaction since Snufkin’s death. This close, you hit him.

“Back to the spitting,” the Joxter grumbles, wiping his cheek. It makes you smile, though the smile is twisted up and painful. Snufkin did fight. You knew he would.

The punch sends hot pain up the side of your face, opens your still-healing wounds. You laugh and though it’s mangled, it’s more derisive than Snufkin’s nervous giggling could ever be. That gets you another hit, and a third that bounces your head off the tree.

“Now, where was I?” The Joxter looks around. His eyes land on the bag. “Ah, of course.” He drags it closer and pulls out a pair of bloodied pliers along with a tangle of fishing line and a red bobber. Those get tossed to the side, and you think of that Snufkin you’d spent time with, napping on him while he fished. It causes a spike of fear, because he’d painted a bobber like that, as well. You don’t know if this is his, you hope it’s not, you’d told him — but you hadn’t known about Bendy. You search frantically for something to prove it isn’t.

The leather cord wrapped around the bag’s strap is a length of tail, rare enough among Snufkins.

“Bendy, would you kindly?” The Joxter calls out somewhere past your field of vision, which is still locked on the bag in your paws. Two Snufkins, two you knew and tried to warn, were murdered by them. Another Snufkin you’ve let die. It’s the fourth in your life.

Bendy materializes at the Joxter’s elbow. “Sure thing, Jox,” it says as part of it melts and climbs up your legs, twines black tendrils around your arms. Your brain wants this to be a nightmare, the unnaturalness of Bendy striking you deep in your gut once more. He shouldn’t exist but the Joxter acts like nothing’s wrong, and despite what your instinct tells you he clearly, horribly does exist. Maybe you really are the mad one here. Other Joxters often said you were, though they’d never done anything like this.

Bendy holds you down as the Joxter kneels in front of you. He pets you again and this time it only brings disgust and fear. When he brings the pliers up to your face, you whine and pull harder to get away, but barely move. The ink drips cold against your skin.

The Joxter slowly, slowly clamps the pliers down at the base of your whisker. Then he holds it there, eyes locked on your own wide ones. He’s waiting. Playing.

When he rips it out, the pain’s so bad you black out.

You come around to a worse pain than anything done so far, something nerve-deep that feels icy-hot. Something like you’ve been blinded, though your sight’s blurred only by tears.

“Wow, he sure has a lot of energy still,” Bendy says, and you notice you’re bound more fully, your mouth covered as well. The Joxter says nothing, as he’s studying your whisker still wedged between the pliers. A bloody, thin bulb weighs the end down.

You want desperately for him to reconsider, to acknowledge you’re a Joxter not a Snufkin, to stop doing this. Of everything done so far, this is the worst. It hurts deeper, stealing senses you’d never consciously been aware of before.

He tosses the whisker aside and leans in to grab another.

“Nnnnngh,” you moan, kicking your legs as much as Bendy’s ink will allow, trying to beg through the inky gag burning an overwhelming chemical stink into your nose and down your throat.

You vomit before the pliers can even touch your next whisker, body convulsing to spit up bile and little else. The Joxter leans you forward and has Bendy ungag you long enough for it to dribble out onto your lap as you continue to dry heave.

“Hah, gross! He ain’t even done it yet,” Bendy says. Taunts, everything it says is mocking. Its smile is wide and flat, so alien you suspect it can’t even fathom the idea of pain, much less the agony that shoots right to your brain and fans out across your face.

The next one is slower, pulling at your stitches. He tugs a few times, then rips. You choke, but unconsciousness won’t come again. Two more and you can’t breathe through your nose, you can’t breathe at all. All you inhale and exhale is pain. You can taste it, though you’ve no tongue to do so, you see it in the colored spots invading your vision, hear it in the rushing drowning out Bendy’s and the Joxter’s words.

They leave you alone after that, and you lay there covered in ink and bile, dried seed and Snufkin’s old blood, spit mixing with tears, smelling nothing but a strange ozone-like burn. The world feels off-kilter, like the instant you move everything will shift, and you’ll stumble right into the canoe and the Joxter’s waiting arms. That thought terrifies you more than anything. Bendy is a monster so does monstrous things, but the Joxter — the Joxter’s cruelty comes from something unfathomable.

 

 

Bendy comes back at some point. “Hey, Happy. You ever gonna get up?”

You try to say you’re not Happy, but talking hurts. Breathing hurts. Existing hurts. You close your eyes and ignore it.

The Joxter throws water on you, startling you awake. You try to push yourself up and slip, and lay there. Now you’re covered in fresh mud, too.

“Come along, Happy,” the Joxter says as though this is a normal day. He catches your arm and drags you up. You don’t know where he’s taking you, because everything’s spinning. Your empty stomach clenches, and you paw at the Joxter like that’ll make him let you go. Bendy dances around your feet. It’s enjoying this far too much, which means whatever the Joxter’s planned you will not like at all.

You ask woozily what he’s doing. It’s not words, it probably wouldn’t be words even if you could speak, and he ignores your attempts. Like he ignores everything else about you.

You’re thrown half into the shallows of a lake and swallow water. The Joxter yanks you back by the collar of your overcoat and lets you cough.

He flips you around so you fall into the shallows on your back this time and can push yourself above the water on shaking arms.

“Whhh?”

The Joxter straddles you. Thoughts muddle up in your head, you can’t figure out what’s going on. “You’ve changed, Happy. I don’t like it.”

“Eh?” That sounds like something you’ve heard before, but the context is all different.

The Joxter shoves you down. Water closes in over your head. It takes you several confused moments to figure out what he’s doing. Are you still afraid of water? Or should I make you afraid?

Oh. He’s drowning you.

He drags you back out of the water. You’re coughing, swallowing down air.

He shoves you under again.

Now you struggle, but it’s tired and weak. You pat lightly at him, before your body gives up. You’re trying to hold your breath but water leaks in through your lips, the cuts in your cheeks. It’s more water than you’ve had in days, and the thought makes you giggle bubbles.

Up you’re pulled, air replaces water. The Joxter supports your body, lets you slump and gasp against him. You should be afraid, you know this intellectually. He’s drowning you by increments.

As the situation coalesces around you, and you go under a third time, that fear starts to creep in. There’s a chance he won’t pull you up this time. Your life is in the paws of a lunatic.

You’re going to die. He’s not pulling you up. He’s not pulling you up.

“Are you Happy?” he asks you this time. You blink blearily at him and apparently don’t answer fast enough, because he shoves you down. Water blurs your vision, roars in your ears.

The next time he asks the same question. “Are you Happy?”

You shake your head. No. Go under. Up again. Are you Happy. No.

Again. You start to swallow water, buck underneath his weight. If you keep refusing he’ll hold you under too long. He’ll miscalculate, or intentionally drown you. You wanted to die, but the reality is much scarier than you expected. Slower. You’re aware of the creeping incoherency, the instinct to survive washing away every selfish desire to die.

The next time you nod.

“Are you a Snufkin?” Yes. “Are you Happy?” Yes. “Good boy.” Yes. You’ll agree to anything if it keeps you from going under again, keeps you from brushing against that strange, dark void of death.

He shoves you under, and those moments you’d had to breathe prove to have been too few. Why was he doing this again? You’d told him what he wanted. You agreed.

You’re on the verge of passing out, and death stops sounding so bad why were you so scared before, when he pulls you up again.

“Remember that you’re alive because of me, Happy. Bendy just wants to fuck you to death — and trust me, I’ve seen how he does it and it’s not fun. At least not for Snufkins.” He laughs.

You know this, you — Snufkin suffered that. You — no wait. You don’t really remember how it happened. You remember Bendy telling you what was done to Snufkin — Happy — You— Happy? You suppose it doesn’t really matter anymore who it happened to. It happened, and you’re to blame, though you don’t remember why. You vaguely recall, somewhere long ago, the idea that Snufkins are largely to blame for their own misfortunes.

You can’t express this idea, so just mull over it as you’re taken back to camp. You’re dropped again and left alone.

“He’s not as much fun,” Bendy tells the Joxter. You lay there, listening to them talk. You feel more awake than you have in days, but at the same time thoughts refuse to connect.

“He’s just confused, darling. I think we made a lot of progress today.”

Bendy blows a raspberry, but says nothing more.

You sleep.

 

 

The Joxter feeds you more, drowns you regularly, but for shorter durations than the first time. If you weren’t afraid of water before (and you can’t really recall ever not being afraid of water), you are now. You hyperventilate every time a bucket is brought over and your face shoved in, or when the Joxter’s feeling more energetic so you’re taken to the lake.

You become strong enough to stumble on your own, and break loose one day at the sight of the lake. Bendy catches you easily and instead of water you’re drowning in ink. Its tongue slips into your mouth, pushes past your gagging and into your spasming throat. Ink drips up your nose, and unlike the Joxter, you doubt Bendy knows how much oxygen someone needs.

The Joxter gets it off of you, almost like he doesn’t want Bendy to kill you, but not enough to stop it early. He stands there and watches you throw up ink and choke on air, then collapse.

You curl up at your tree when they bring you back to the nest, and refuse the food offered you. The Joxter slaps you, declares you ungrateful, and lets Bendy eat your portion. You guess it’s ironic, since it doesn’t need to eat. The Joxter hits you for a lot of things, and Bendy observes that he’s being rougher with you than he used to be. You don’t remember how things used to be. All you know is right now, and even then you’re not so sure.

 

 

You wake up suddenly, with an itch in your nose and Bendy sitting on your chest. It’s heavy, but not as heavy as the Joxter. Almost a comforting weight.

It’s nighttime.

“Hey, did you know your nose is wiggling, Happy? Like a bunny’s.” Bendy makes a gesture like a bunny hopping, two fingers held up as ears. You hadn’t, but it settles poorly in you, the feeling, like something awful is going to happen. You don’t understand how anything could be worse.

“I’m getting kind of bored of the plan.”

You’d forgotten there was a plan, and struggle to remember what it was.

“Y’see, there’s supposed to be this big reveal at some point, make it real funny when Jox realizes — at least, that’s how it’s supposed to go, but I don’t think he’s gonna realize. He’s really convinced himself you’re Happy. I think even you think you are, which is weird. Why are you so weird?”

You shake your head, completely baffled by what it’s talking about. That’s a common state for you, though. Things rarely make sense anymore.

“Anyway, I’m getting bored. So I thought of something to make things more fun. If you think you’re Happy, and —“ here, its voice lowers conspiratorially, “— and we both know I killed Happy —“ before increasing again in volume. “I kind of thought: hey, this is a great opportunity. I’ve never had the chance to kill the same Snufkin twice. But we gotta be quiet so the Joxter doesn’t wake up. ”

Before you understand what it says, Bendy covers your mouth with its gloved paw, and its other paw pinches your nose shut. Bendy’s suffocating you. You should be afraid.

Yet…. it’s going to stop soon, you think. Like every other time, they push you to the brink, but the Joxter pulls you out just before it got too long.

The Joxter’s not here, though. He’s asleep in his canoe. It’s only you, Bendy, and a shared secret about Happy.

Okay. You’re going to die this time. It’s only fitting. You should be dead. You should have died at the bridge, doing something more to save… to save your Snufkin? Or yourself? Or a little rat-tailed Snufkin, you don’t remember anymore.

Bendy’s talking, and the words are quiet. Almost hypnotized. “I’ve never killed someone like this before,” it says, inky-black eyes locked on your own.  “It’s sure something. Wow.” A paw — neither of the ones holding your nose and mouth — brushes your forehead, down your cheek. The distressed noise you make is muffled.

It doesn’t stop you from scratching at it, both because you’re too weak to damage it, and it seems invulnerable. That’s a thought you’d never let yourself entertain before, that Bendy _can’t_  be stopped. “Yeah,” it breathes out. “This is nice. Can’t even fight, can ya? And you’re tryin’ so hard, too. Shh, Happy, it’s okay. It’s okay. I mean it ain’t, but — ” It cuts off his own attempts at comfort with laughter, silly even in this horribly, horribly intimate moment.

Your lungs burn and your vision blackens, until all that’s left is Bendy’s grinning, bone-white face. Your entire world narrows to it, becomes just Bendy and buzzing silence and darkness. You want to breathe. You try to, desperately, but suck down nothingness.

You’re afraid. You’re so afraid like Snufkin must have been. _Snufkin_. You need to find him. Where’s Snufkin —

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Mama Foxter's Abysmal Rescue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15927728) by [Doceo_Percepto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto)




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